


Taken I Am Yours (Queer As Folk/Supernatural fusion)

by ladybugkay



Category: Queer as Folk (US), Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Porn, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Canon Gay Character, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Explicit Sexual Content, Feelings, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Underage Relationship(s), Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Pining, Pining Dean, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 20:15:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2554166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladybugkay/pseuds/ladybugkay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're the ones left behind, and for one night, they don't want to be who they are or who they are supposed to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taken I Am Yours (Queer As Folk/Supernatural fusion)

**Author's Note:**

> This is an old work I am reposting from livejournal in the long and exhausting process of transferring all my fics over here. Bear with me. Fair warning on this one: yes, it's Brian/Dean, but it's all about the Brian/Justin and Sam/Dean.
> 
> The timeline early season 3 of _QAF_ when Justin is still with Ethan, and pre-series _SPN_ shortly after Sam leaves for Stanford. (The timelines actually coincide!) Knowledge of both shows is best, but if you've seen the pilot of _Supernatural_ , that's all you really have to know for that fandom. On the _QAF_ side of things, you should know what happened in the first 2 seasons
> 
> Showtime and Cowlip and Russell T. Davies own the rights to _QAF_ ; and Eric Kripke, Warner Brothers, and the CW own the rights to _SPN_. I'm writing fic for fun and intend no copyright infringement.
> 
> The offensive and derogatory language is representative of Brian's personality and language and does not reflect my beliefs or opinions. The title from a lyric in "Are You Ten Years Ago" by Tegan and Sara.

  
Brian is at Woody’s, halfway to drunk and somehow still managing to pretend to listen to Michael. It’s a talent he perfected while they were still in high school, and it’s served him well over the years, especially during the months when Dr. Dave was still in the picture. Ted and Emmett are being disgustingly newlywed next to him, and Brian wishes they would just get the goddamned divorce already, because they’re making him fucking nauseous, and the last thing he needs is for any pseudo-hetero bullshit to spill over onto him. 

He’s checking out the room for the fifth time, in the vain hope that someone fuckable will have made an appearance, when the guy walks in and Brian’s dick stands up and takes notice.

It would be impossible for it not to, the way this guy looks.

He is by far the hottest fag Brian has seen in here in months, and Jesus Christ, he didn’t think it was possible, but this guy is prettier than he is. Not hotter, no, because Brian Kinney holds that title still, no matter who else is present, but definitely prettier. He’s fucking beautiful, is what he is, and probably ten years younger, although Brian would never admit that out loud. Better yet, the guy’s mouth is giving Brian any number of ideas for the rest of the night. Even if it turns out the guy can’t suck cock worth a damn, the visual of those lips on his dick would more than make up for a mediocre blowjob. 

Mediocre blowjobs seem to be all that’s out there, these days, anyway. Brian hasn’t had his cock sucked to his satisfaction in longer than he wants to think about.

But this guy is worth the fuck for the sake of those lips alone. And his eyes have a focus and intensity that would be even hotter when he’s looking up at Brian from somewhere around the region of his cock.

So many men look better on their knees.

And it may have been a while since Brian has noticed some guy’s eyes before his ass, but it doesn’t look as if the ass would exactly be a turn-off, either. From what Brian can see of it from where he sits, this guy’s ass would have been enough to catch his interest even if he hadn’t seen the face first. Brian can feel the grin slide onto his face as the trick of the night practically picks itself. If anyone deserves an extraordinary fuck, it’s Brian, and there is no doubt that whoever this guy is, he stands out from the regular crowd at Woody’s.

He’s gay and cruising, that’s clear enough, but his clothes haven’t been chosen for showing off his body, although the white t-shirt does cling nicely to the muscles of his back and his broad shoulders. The guy scanned the bar when he came in, yes, but Brian saw how subtle it was, and there was something unusual about it, too, a concentration or consideration that was nothing like the heat and need in the eyes of someone looking just for a good fuck. 

However, Brian’s interest has nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that the guy didn’t pay him any special attention during his casual sweep of the room. He had noticed Brian – who wouldn’t? – but he noticed him in the same way he noticed everyone else, without acknowledging him at all, which is both unfathomable and unacceptable. 

But perhaps a challenge is exactly what Brian has needed for awhile, now. It’s pathetic, almost insulting, really, how easy it’s become to find a willing ass or an eager mouth in this town. Only almost, though, because he’s still Brian Kinney, and it’s natural that men will line up for the chance to suck his cock. Brian still needs his dick sucked regularly and a hot ass to fuck on demand, but still, sometimes those are just too easy to find. All he has to do is raise a finger and they’re on their knees or ass-up and begging.

This guy, now, this guy doesn’t look as if he has ever begged anyone in his life, and Brian intends to be the one to fuck him until he breaks apart and screams for it. It will be his reward for the last couple of months, or maybe he means the last couple of years.

Either way, tonight, he decides, is going to be one truly memorable fuck, the tale of which he will regale the boys with tomorrow and for many years to come, once he’s had that ass that’s bending low, now, over the pool table.

That’s the ass Brian is going to be balls-deep in, in just a few minutes, and he’s already imagining how good it’s going to be.

Brian stands smoothly up from the table, snagging his drink and draining it almost as an afterthought, and starts making his way toward that eminently fuckable ass in the worn jeans.

“Brian! Where the fuck are you going?”

“Later, Mikey,” he says without turning around. There is no need; he knows the look that will be in those puppy eyes, and he isn’t going to let so much as the thought of them distract him from achieving his objective.

“You could at least wait until I was finished talking, you know.” 

Brian could care less about the stories a bunch of frightened queens made up about some old homophobe who’s been dead for ten years, anyway. Besides, Michael isn’t really mad at him. The words may have been petulant, but the tone was wryly affectionate.

He keeps walking.

“Sweetie, forget it,” he hears Emmett say behind him. “He’s picked tonight’s entrée and you know he never leaves a meal unfinished.”

Then he is at the pool table, and this close, Brian can see even more clearly what an excellent choice he’s made. The guy is almost exactly his height, with cheekbones Emmett would kill for, perfect lips that are almost too full, and wide green eyes with longer lashes than Brian has seen even on blue eyes. There’s a leather bracelet on his right wrist that Brian thinks is probably worn as constantly as the cowrie shell one on his own wrist, and the way the cue slides through his hands has Brian licking his lips and adjusting himself slightly in his jeans.

The guy glances up at him with those fucking gorgeous eyes, older and more cynical than they should be – _good_ , Brian thinks, _he’ll know how this goes_ – before looking back at the table and making a tricky shot so effortlessly Brian knows he’s good. 

“Lookin’ for a game?”

It’s a voice made for sex, low and rough, the tone confident and cocky.

Brian lets the smile slide purposefully into place. “Maybe later. Right now, there are better things for you to do with your hands.”

“Yeah?” This time the guy _notices_ him, his eyes roaming lazily over Brian’s bare arms, the skin at his open collar, the length of his legs, before returning to his face. “You got a destination in mind for this handling?”

Maybe this won’t be as much of a challenge as he thought. If that’s the case, he’s not going to waste the whole night with a pair of pretty lips and big eyes. Brian inclines his head in the direction of the men’s room, one eyebrow raised. The guy follows his gaze, then catches his eye once more, shakes his head slightly, and returns to his attention to the pool table.

Oh, no. That’s not the way this goes. Who the fuck does this little shit think he is? He’s _Brian fucking Kinney_ , for Christ’s sake, and no one turns him down.

Taking one step closer and leaning in, Brian slides his hand over the guy’s waist, across his stomach, and down to his cock.

Or he would, but before he can even make contact, his wrist is in the guy’s hand and they’re face to face again. 

“You don’t want to be doin’ that without my say-so.”

He doesn’t need this shit. Twisting his hand out of the guy’s grasp, Brian uses it to shove at his shoulder, but he’s not all that surprised when the guy doesn’t move an inch. “If you didn’t come here to get laid, you’re in the wrong fucking place,” Brian enunciates clearly.

“I never said I didn’t come to get laid.”

Brian narrows his eyes and presses his lips together, trying to get a handle on this guy. For a second, he thinks he sees something in his face, his eyes, that feels painfully familiar, but he shoves the thought away before it can catch hold.

Instead, he crowds deliberately into the guy’s space, slow and obvious, slips the fingers of one hand just inside the waistband of his jeans, and pulls him closer. The guy lets himself be moved – and it’s clear that he’s allowing it to happen, that no one could make him move if it wasn’t his choice – and when their bodies are flush against each other, Brian can feel the guy hard against him and he can’t help feeling smug.

“I guess you are hard up for a fuck. Or is that ‘up hard?’”

He steps back, again, confident that he’s made his point, and waves a hand toward the pool table, inviting the guy to continue his game against himself. Then, he settles in to watch.

The guy focuses on the obvious bulge in Brian’s pants before bending suggestively over the table and lining up his cue. The next shot is made with the guy looking right at him, a grin on his face almost bright enough to rival the sun.

Brian doesn’t blink.

The guy runs the table like a fucking pro, and Brian is impressed, although he’s sure as fuck not going to say so out loud. Instead, he applauds, a little sarcastically, as the last ball drops, and he watches as the guy sets the cue aside and turns around.

The look on his face this time is the one Brian’s been waiting for, all invitation and full-on desire, and it makes him harder than fuck. He turns without a word and heads for the door, in no doubt that the guy will follow. Sure enough, when he gets outside, the guy is right beside him, but he passes Brian and heads toward his own car. It takes just one look at the purposeful stride, providing the visual of that compact muscle moving under him, for Brian to decide he’s fine with letting someone else drive now as long as he’s the one doing the driving when they get where they’re going.

“Dean,” the guy offers, tossing the word his way as if it says everything Brian needs to know about him. It’s the first thing he’s said since confirming his interest in getting laid.

Brian’s initial reaction is not to give his name, and he doesn’t want to think about what kind of pussy he’s turned into that his first instinct is to adhere to some bullshit agreement that doesn’t matter, anymore, anyway.

“Brian,” he says finally, after too long a hesitation, and then shuts his mouth and keeps walking, grateful that this Dean guy just nods and doesn’t even look his way.

Newcomers to Pittsburgh can be a blessing when it comes to an uncomplicated fuck, although Brian doubts his mother would like the reasoning behind that blasphemous little thought.

When they reach the car, parked across the street from a streetlight Brian doesn’t notice at all, Brian’s estimation of Dean goes up considerably.

“Is that a ’67 Impala?”

The pride is obvious in Dean’s response. “Yeah. She’s beautiful, ain’t she?” He strokes the hood as he walks around the front of the car to open the driver’s side door, and Brian gets a sudden flash of that hand on his body and shuts up about the fucking car in favour of lowering himself into it, instead.

Except, “ _Metallica_?”

“Driver picks the music; shotgun shuts his cakehole unless he can find a better use for it.” Dean grins.

That, right there, is something no one says to him. No fucking trick has the right to expect Brian Kinney to suck his cock, and he wouldn’t do it in a fucking car, anyway, even if his dick did just get noticeably harder at that sex-soaked grin. It’s time Brian corrects certain misconceptions about the way this night is going to go, and his tone is blunt when he says, “I don’t suck on command. I’m the one who _gives_ the commands.”

There is a pause so brief Brian almost doesn’t register it. Then Dean says, “Well, no one’s ever accused me of not being able to follow orders.” 

If the guy’s laugh is a little on the bitter side, what the fuck does Brian care? He’s going to get his dick sucked, and the whole of fucking Pittsburgh knows that’s all that is important to him. This is just one more trick, and Brian has no desire to learn anything more about Dean than how hard he can suck and how tight his ass is.

“I appreciate a man who can rise to any occasion,” he says, cupping his hand around Dean’s cock before the car is even in gear, and the guy doesn’t hesitate as he cants his hips up to rub against Brian’s palm.

“Just tell me where to go.”

  


Brian’s hands are in Dean’s pants before they’re even in the elevator, and Dean is sucking on his neck just hard enough not to leave a mark, a consideration Brian appreciates. The last thing he needs is to be sporting a fucking hickey when he has a major presentation the next morning. But he doesn’t have to worry about that, so Brian focuses on the solid muscle of Dean’s ass under his hands, an ass that is nothing like a nineteen-year-old student’s.

When they step out onto his floor, Brian turns to unlock the door and feels Dean press up against his back, breath hot against the side of his neck. Dean’s cock is hard and insistent as he grinds it in teasing circles against Brian’s ass, and Brian thought they settled this in the car, but maybe he needs to remind Dean just whose dick is going in whose ass, here.

But then they’re inside the loft and Dean is moving past him and stripping off his shirt, every gesture an exercise in the economy of movement.

“Make yourself at home,” Brian says lazily, taking note of Dean’s automatic assessment of his loft and knowing instinctively that this guy doesn’t give a fuck about the designer furniture or the color scheme. 

“Dude, this is a fucking huge apartment.” Dean turns on his heel to face Brian, again, and his grin is a cross between a hooker propositioning a client and a six-year-old released for recess. “Do you have any idea what you could do in here with this much space?”

“Generally I like to keep the orgies out of the loft. Clean-up can be a bitch.”

Dean’s gaze focuses in on him with a disconcerting intensity, but his eyes have darkened in a familiar way, and Brian doesn’t care enough to think beyond that, not with the guy’s naked chest on display and the obvious hard-on in his pants.

“Bed’s through there,” he indicates with a jerk of his chin, and strides past Dean, catching him by the waistband of his jeans and tugging once before letting go and waiting for Dean to follow.

He does.

At the top of the stairs, Brian turns to walk backwards so he can enjoy the view. He undoes the buttons on his shirt slowly, exaggerating it for the tease it is, because he’s never given a fuck about subtlety. Dean’s eyes flicker between the long fingers working each button and the steadily growing expanse of naked skin being exposed. Beyond that, Dean doesn’t move, doesn’t take off his jeans or undress any further than the shirt he lost the moment they came through the door.

Not that Brian is in any hurry. They’ve got all night, no curfew for the big boys, and Brian can’t make up his mind if he should stare at the perfection of Dean’s face or the muscles of his chest that are clearly the result of physical labour and not hours spent in a gym focusing on specific muscle groups. It’s strangely appealing. Dean’s body is as hard as it is because that’s obviously the way he lives his life, and Brian can feel his cock getting harder at the thought of watching that body at work.

He slides the last button through its buttonhole and strips the shirt from his arms, tossing it across the room. Dean steps in close, but doesn’t try to kiss him, hasn’t tried even once since this started, and Brian doesn’t think about why he’s grateful for that. 

Besides, there is no doubt about what this is, here, between him and Dean. This is fucking, without any illusions or pretense, nothing less and nothing more. No complications, just the way Brian likes it. It’s also the way Dean wants it, too, apparently, and it’s always good to be on the same page when it comes to these kinds of things.

This time, it’s Dean who gets his hand in Brian’s pants. He pops the button with one hand and pulls the fly open with two, yanking hard to force the zipper down and unveil Brian’s cock as if it were a piece of art. 

If it were, it would be a fucking masterpiece, famous even among those unfortunate enough not to have seen it in person, and the subject of adulation among the lucky ones who have actually experienced its genius.

There’s a reason Brian doesn’t wear underwear on nights like this.

Brian is anticipating those lips and that mouth on his cock, but Dean doesn’t immediately drop to his knees the way he should. When he licks his palm, instead, and wraps his right hand around Brian’s dick, stroking just this side of too rough with a strong, callused grip, Brian closes his own mouth on the complaint and leans his head back to enjoy the sensation for a while.

He is aware of Dean watching his hand as it works Brian’s cock in a distinctive rhythm, a twist of wrist at the top of the stroke and a swipe of thumb over the head, and Brian bites back a moan because no trick, no matter how pretty or how strong his grip, makes Brian Kinney moan with a hand job.

When he decides it’s time to lose the rest of their clothes and get to the fucking, already, Brian grabs Dean’s wrist, and Dean stops, immediately.

It appears he does know how to take an order, and that’s good to know.

In one swift motion, Brian takes hold of his jeans and slides them down the entire length of his legs, then straightens and steps out of them, leaving them where they lie. Dean’s attention focuses instantly on Brian’s cock, and from the unmistakable tilt of his mouth, he likes what he sees. As well he should. He gets out of his own jeans gratifyingly quickly, still with that same unconscious efficiency, and Brian has his hand on the hard line of Dean’s hip a second later.

There is a slight hesitation, more like a stutter or hiccup than an actual pause for breath, when Brian goes to shove Dean down on the bed and Dean…resists. He is lean but pure muscle, and he doesn’t move with Brian’s push on his chest.

No fucking way is Brian getting thrown down on the bed, especially when it’s his own – one person can get away with that, and he isn’t around, anymore – but before it can become any kind of issue, Dean does something with his leg that knocks them both off their feet and onto the bed, and the action resumes with barely a skip in the video.

Brian has one hand back on the curve of Dean’s hip, ready to roll him onto his stomach, and he grabs a condom from the nightstand with the other, but Dean takes hold of the same condom and opens his mouth.

Not to suck Brian’s cock but to speak.

That should have been his first clue.

But rather than starting some pissing contest about who is going to be the top in tonight’s proceedings, Dean says, “Is this gonna be about closing our eyes and thinking about England and someone naked who might be there, or are we taking a break from ourselves?”

Brian should be buried to the hilt in this guy’s ass right about now, and instead he’s holding onto a condom with him like they’re about to make a wish on a turkey bone. The sigh is entirely justified, as is pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers and the thumb of his free hand. The other holds firmly onto the condom. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Dean’s gaze is steady. Apparently green can cut through bullshit almost as well as blue. 

“Do you want to be someone else, or do you want me to be? I was planning on us fucking before I leave town tomorrow, and we can play this either way.”

Dean’s hair is really more brown than blonde, his eyes are green, he’s as tall as Brian is, and his ass is gorgeous in a way that isn’t familiar at all. And Brian is tired of look-alikes and fantasy fucks.

He’s tired of being ‘Brian Kinney, for fuck’s sake.’

He lets go of the condom.

Lying on his stomach as Dean sucks and licks his way down his spine, taking the control Brian handed him, Brian wonders if maybe he’s not the only one stepping outside of himself for the night. And it’s not as if he doesn’t ever do this. He did it just a few months ago, although he’s not thinking about that, not tonight, and even he gets the urge to be fucked, sometimes.

Dean’s hands take hold of Brian’s cheeks and spread them, and he doesn’t tense up because he’s not a fucking virgin, for Christ’s sake. The first touch of a slick finger against his hole is not tentative, and at least Dean knows not to pussyfoot around, even though Brian doesn’t recall when he got out the lube.

He’s breathing harder, but it isn’t panting, because Dean hasn’t really done much of anything, yet.One strong finger, lubed generously, which Brian can appreciate, objectively speaking, presses inside, and Brian bites his lip on a sound he refuses to recognize.

Dean doesn’t say anything as he works the finger inside him, easing out and pressing in again, and Brian is grateful for the absence of stale porn dialogue. When he does this, he doesn’t like a big production being made out of it. He likes to be fucked on occasion, yes, but what he wants is the fuck itself; no embellishments, no elaborations, no performance whatsoever beyond the feel and the sound of the fuck itself. 

Even when he’s the one doing the fucking, Brian doesn’t generally like to talk during sex, unless it’s to have an actual conversation. He’s never been one for _oh, yes, that’s so good, right there_. Talking dirty is for before the fuck, and it’s never anything but the honest truth about what is going to happen. When he says, “I’m going to fuck you so hard and so long your knees will buckle and you won’t be able to walk right for a week,” it’s a statement of intent and not just him running his mouth. Brian doesn’t need to talk dirty during a fuck to get a trick to come; he can do that with his dick and his hand alone.

It looks like Dean is of a similar mind, and it’s gratifying to know Brian can gauge correctly every time.

A second finger comes sooner than expected, but it feels fucking amazing. Brian’s groan is actually more of a sigh than anything else, and he pushes back slightly against the fingers in his ass when they pull out before coming back in a twisting motion that makes the next groan louder and from deep in his chest. He raises himself up enough to get his knees under him, and the new angle feels even better. Brian drops his head to rest on his folded forearms and arches his back into the feel of Dean’s fingers working inside him.

When Dean adds a third finger, Brian bites down on his fist and listens to the sound that comes from Dean’s throat as he pushes back against that hand.

“I’m ready,” Brian bites out after another minute, and the relieved huff of air against his back is nothing compared to the prickling heat underneath his skin and the beads of sweat rolling down his neck and sliding down his arms. He wants this, now, and he’s going to enjoy the hell out of it, because he knows how to pick a good fuck regardless of who does the fucking.

Finally, finally, he hears the tear of the condom package and the sounds of Dean adding more lube and stroking himself a few times, and it’s about fucking time. 

The first blunt pressure of Dean’s cock reminds Brian again that Dean is as big as he is, but he breathes through it and forces himself to relax. Dean takes it slow, giving him enough time to adjust before pushing in farther, and by the time his balls are resting against Brian’s ass, Brian _is_ panting, but the stretch feels incredible.

Dean doesn’t wait for instructions or demands. His first thrust is unerringly accurate, sending a jolt of sharp pleasure through Brian’s body. Dean pulls out and thrusts in, again, hard, and he must have perfect aim, because he keeps hitting the right spot. Brian groans steadily in perfect rhythm with the slap of flesh against flesh and the obscene, wet noise Dean’s cock makes as they fuck, and the only other sounds are the harsh gasping of their breaths and the occasional grunts torn from Dean’s chest.

Maybe _this_ is what Brian really needed, tonight.

He squeezes once just to hear what sound Dean will make, and he can’t help but smile when he hears it.

Dean reaches around then to take hold of his cock, and Brian closes his eyes when he feels again the calluses on that hand.

Sweat burns Brian’s eyes, and his hair is plastered against his forehead. He is thrusting back against Dean as hard as he can, and he can feel his orgasm gathering low in his back and in his balls – he won’t ever admit it, but he thinks Dean might actually break his record for stamina. With one more hard thrust, Brian comes, and he comes hard. It feels as if he hasn’t had an orgasm in a very long time, even though that’s far from true; he got a blowjob in the backroom of Babylon the night before and then brought home another trick and fucked him over the back of the couch.

But he hasn’t come this hard in a while, so when he does, he can’t be blamed for the guttural groan he makes at the same time.

In retaliation, Brian clenches his ass to try to bring Dean off. But the guy is clearly long past taking orders, because he just keeps going, and it still feels good, even though Brian’s ass is going to be sore for at least a couple of days, so he doesn’t say anything, just keeps rocking his hips back to meet Dean’s.

Brian has always been proud of his recovery time, so it isn’t that much of a surprise when he finds himself getting hard again after a while, and he figures this way he can get a blowjob out of Dean, so that’s even better. And finally, Dean’s pace falls out of the steady rhythm he’s been maintaining. His thrusts turn erratic, get faster and more uncontrolled, and Brian can hear him panting desperately as he fucks harder.

Dean comes silently, and Brian doesn’t know if he’s consciously trying to avoid saying something or if it’s just the way Dean is, but he doesn’t ask.

He allows Dean to rest for a minute against his back after he falls there, but he’s about to shake him off with a biting remark when Dean lifts off his back and eases out of him carefully enough that Brian doesn’t even wince. Dean ties off the condom and gets off the bed to walk into the bathroom to dispose of it, stopping on his way back to lean against the doorway when he sees Brian on his back.

Brian spreads his arms wide and looks pointedly at his erection.

Dean laughs a little under his breath as he approaches the bed, and he looks fucking _hot_ as he crawls across it on his knees to reach Brian. He licks a long line up the side of Brian’s cock, flicking once over the head, and it’s all good, because it turns out Dean-of-the-perfect-lips has an agile, clever tongue.

The moment those lips close around the head of Brian’s cock, he wants to thank whoever is responsible for Dean’s genetics for an ad campaign that tells it like it is, because Dean is just as good at sucking him off as he was at fucking him. It isn’t the best blowjob Brian’s ever had only because he’s been spoiled for the last two years.

It’s still pretty fucking incredible, especially when Dean takes him into his throat and holds him there awhile, his eyes open and intense when Brian catches his gaze. He was right about how hot it is to have those eyes looking up at him from that position.

He rarely guesses wrong.

Brian manages to hold off coming for long enough that he doesn’t embarrass himself, and he doesn’t even mind when Dean spits into a tissue instead of swallowing. Brian wasn’t wearing a condom, so it’s safer, anyway, and he still got both the blowjob and a hell of a visual to add to his memories for jerking off when there aren’t any decent bodies around.

When Dean gets up and brings back a wet towel to aid in clean-up, Brian is willing to admit he’s impressed.

Not that he’s going to thank the guy, or anything. It’s common courtesy, after all. And Brian doesn’t have the energy to do it himself, anyway. He’s exhausted in the way that only comes when he’s fucked himself out, and that’s a rare, wonderful feeling.

Now is when he would normally kick the trick out, but Dean falls onto the bed on his back, and for some reason, Brian lets him. “Not bad,” he offers, and Dean snorts and turns his head to give him a smug look.

“Please. That was hot, and you know it, and it doesn’t make you any less of a man because one time, you took it up the ass instead of giving it. Let it go, man.” He settles himself more comfortably on the bed. “Besides, I gave you the best blowjob you’ll ever have.”

Brian should be offended, but he’s capable of acknowledging that he’s more than a little bit blissed-out, and he can’t quite catch the words before they make it out of his mouth. “Second best.”

The look in Dean’s eyes is far too sharp and knowing.

“Who is he?”

“No one.”

“Bullshit. Who is he?”

“No one.”

“Come on, I’m not gonna tell anyone.”

Brian glares at him. “Why don’t you tell me who _you_ didn’t want to think about, if we’re supposed to be unburdening our souls? Christ!”

Dean’s flinch is barely noticeable, but it’s there. “…okay.”

Brian is waiting to tell him sorry is bullshit, but Dean doesn’t apologize. Maybe it’s for that reason that Brian decides to give him something.

“He’s a _student_ , if you can believe that.”

Dean’s laugh is short and not at all pleasant. “Yeah, I can believe that.” He raises one hand and rubs the back of his neck with it. “You give them everything, all you have, and it’s not enough – they still want more. So they leave.”

Brian knew he wasn’t the only one with issues. 

He wishes Dean’s weren’t as familiar as the ones Brian has.

Dean isn’t much older than a kid, himself, but his eyes aren’t just wide and green, they’re tired. They’ve got more shadows and walls behind them than Brian’s, and something tells him he really doesn’t want to know why.

Dean’s right, anyway. They leave.

But he doesn’t want to think about that, and he’s pretty sure Dean doesn't want to think about it, either, so Brian reaches for his cigarettes and lighter, instead. He offers one to Dean, who turns it down, and Brian just shrugs and lights his own, taking the smoke in and holding it in his lungs for a bit before letting it out.

He stares at the ceiling and the smoke rising lazily above him, not thinking about anything at all.

“So, listen,” Dean says, clearing his throat. “I’ll be out of your hair in the morning, but I was hoping I could sleep here, tonight, so I don’t have to find a motel. It’s late and it’s been a really long day, but if you don’t want me here, just say so.”

Brian turns his head to look at him, at his full lips and old eyes, the faint freckles on his face, and the abundance of scars covering his body Brian has been careful not to notice from the moment Dean took off his shirt. He looks back at the ceiling and reaches over without looking to stab his cigarette out in the ashtray next to the bed.

“Yeah, sure. Just don’t fucking steal anything.” He pulls the sheet up from where it lies twisted at the foot of the bed and stays awake long enough only to switch off the lights over the bed and turn on his side.

 

 

Brian wakes up the next morning alone, nothing stolen, and thinks that knowing when to leave is one more skill Dean appears to have perfected. All in all, it was a good night, and Brian feels better than he has in weeks.

When his cleaning lady asks him about the salt she found in lines under the windows and across the door, he tells her he doesn’t know what the fuck she’s talking about, gives her an extra fifty bucks so she stops talking to him, and doesn’t think anything more about it.  
  
 _fin_


End file.
